The One Where Sherlock Has Trouble
by ijustwanttobeabritishman
Summary: In which Sherlock Holmes struggles during a case and gets a proper lesson in pop culture along the way.


The One Case Sherlock Actually Had Trouble With

Or

In Which John Watson Outsmarts Them All (And gives Sherlock a small lesson in pop culture along the way)

Sherlock Holmes burst through the doors to Lestrade's office in his usual overly-dramatic way, brandishing a phone- a very familiar pink phone.

"John's been kidnapped!" he announced to the man behind the desk, who looked up tiredly.

"What, again?" Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow. "You've got to keep a better eye on him, you know."

"Not the point," Sherlock replied, setting the phone on the desk with a resolute '_thunk_'. "John's been kidnapped and I need to find him." The look in his eyes wasn't to the Dangerous level quite yet; it was more of a Slightly Upset glare. Lestrade sighed exasperatedly and picked up the phone.

"Right. So. John?" he prompted, not turning the phone on but inspecting it carefully.

"Went to do the shopping last night because I refused," Sherlock answered. "Didn't come back. I received that," he indicated to the phone Lestrade was holding, "in the mail this morning. Nothing's come in yet, but I'm assuming it will be important somehow." Lestrade nodded.

"Is this the same phone from the bomber cases?" he asked, turning it on and seeing it had the same background as the mentioned Pink Phone.

"No, it's a new one," Sherlock replied, instantly. "Once again, they've gone to the trouble of making it look like the same phone." He made a small _tut _noise, as if Lestrade not figuring this out on his own was ridiculous.

"Moriarty?" Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Perhaps." Sherlock did not smile.

The phone let out a loud, annoying ring that caused Lestrade to flinch slightly. Sherlock merely blinked and took the phone from his hands, answering the call and thumbing the speaker option on.

"John?"

"Hello, again, Shirley," came John's voice. It was flat, monotone, and Sherlock could tell the words were forced.

"Are you okay, John?" Sherlock asked, directly. In the corner of his eye he could see Lestrade paying close attention.

"Your pet is fine," John answered. He sounded not as if he was in pain (which Sherlock was grateful for), but as if he was reading the words only because he was forced. Each word was spat out individually, angrily.

"Let him go," Sherlock replied, firmly. There was a small pause before John's answer came.

"Ah-ah-ah," came John's voice, slightly sing-songed. "That's… that's not how the game works."

Sherlock fumed. Moriarty had gone one step too far. "Let. John. Go," he growled.

Lestrade pulled out his own phone and began texting Mycroft. Sherlock might hold contempt for his brother, but the man was useful in situations like this. He received no answer and pocketed the mobile again, feeling slightly useless.

"You're not in the position to be making demands, Shirley," John said, and Sherlock sighed, exasperatedly.

"What do you want me to do?"

oO0Oo

Sherlock huffed, wrapping the scarf around his neck gain and turning the collar of his coat up against the cold. Honestly, it was nearly June. London shouldn't be allowed to be this cold, surely? He brushed the thought off and made his way to the large building, scowling for good measure. It didn't feel right, walking alone on a case. Well, it wasn't really a case; there wasn't a dead body. And he was not about to turn it into a case by making a dead body out of John. He pushed the door open with one hand impatiently and strode inside, peering around.

The clue that Moriarty had given him was nothing but '42'. Sherlock had heard John say something about 42 once, but never given it much thought other than the fact that it was from a book. He frowned as he made his way through the humble-looking bookstore, not entirely sure what he was looking for.

"Need help, sir?" came a rather shy voice from behind him. Sherlock turned to see a small teenage girl standing, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her hoodie. Sherlock's eyes flickered around her person, taking in details automatically. She was obviously new to the store and didn't know her way around very well yet. He stopped himself from getting distracted and cleared his throat, knowing he'd have more luck if he acted like a normal customer. He hated having to ask for help, but he didn't think he'd be able to find the book with nothing to go on but a single number.

"Yes, actually. I was looking for a book- I don't know the name of it," he explained, sounding bashful. "My friend was reading it, and- well, I don't know much about it other than it has to do with the number 42." The girl beamed, obviously pleased she knew it.

"Oh! Of course- one moment," she gushed, running between shelves before returning with a thick book. "This is one of my _favorites._"

Sherlock smiled reluctantly. "Yes, thank you. How much?"

He paid for the book and returned to Baker Street. After greeting Mrs. Hudson briefly, he made his way up the stairs and into the flat, where he promptly dropped the book.

The entire wall was covered in yellow spray paint.


End file.
